


My Dearest Darling

by bouncingclowns



Series: Nat’s Ratched One Shots [9]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, So much fluff it might fly away, We all need so happy sapphics though right, also pancakes, literally this is only fluff, mildred literally might start floating HAHA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27758131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouncingclowns/pseuds/bouncingclowns
Summary: “ Gwendolyn sings. Well, no, not so much sings as hums a melody with the adage of her favorite lyrics when she can remember them.”A fluffy little look into morning in the Briggs/Ratched home.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Series: Nat’s Ratched One Shots [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965112
Comments: 7
Kudos: 59





	My Dearest Darling

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this what feels like a million years ago and simply forgot to share it here. I do hope you enjoy ❤️ I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

Gwendolyn sings. Well, no, not so much sings as hums a melody with the adage of her favorite lyrics when she can remember them. She goes through song cycles. Most recently, the object of her affection has been the discography of one Etta James.

Today, Mildred awoke to _A Sunday Kind of Love_ being murmured only slightly off key from the bathroom. The pale glow of morning settled into their bedroom as if someone had thrown a bucket of the light onto their room and watched it soak through. Mildred sits up on her elbows, blinks away the last bits of sleep. The air smells sweet, an amalgam of both their perfumes, and the floral notes of Gwendolyn’s shampoo seeping through the crack in the bathroom door. Mildred falls back against the pillows. Her hair feathers around her, a smile purses against her lips, and she sighs.

“And my arms need someone, someone to – oh, you’re awake.” Gwendolyn appears in the doorway, steam billowing around her ankles, and clad in nothing more than a robe. Her strawberry blonde curls hang damp and limp against her shoulders, and she musses them with her fingers to ring out droplets of water.

“Good morning.” Mildred breathes, eyes still gazing up at the ceiling.

“Morning. I was thinking pancakes for breakfast?”

“That sounds nice.”

Gwendolyn starts on the batter while Mildred dresses. She smells coffee as she pins her rusty hair into a bun, and hears the sizzle of the griddle as she applies makeup. By the time she descends the stairs, Gwendolyn is putting syrup on the table and chopping up strawberries, and humming all the while.

“I don’t want Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, Friday, or Saturday. Oh nothing but Sunday, oh yeah.”

Mildred comes up behind her, wraps her arms around the taller woman’s waist, and buries her face in the nape of her neck. She smells like lavender and menthol, like the ocean, and driving down the coastline, and brown butter, and sugar. Like home, Mildred thinks, she smells like home.

“Darling, if you don’t let me go, we are going to be eating charcoal for breakfast.” Gwendolyn teases, finding Mildred’s cheek with the palm of her hand and spinning so that she’s facing her.

Gwendolyn’s fingers are sticky with the natural sweetness of berries. The color there matches the blush high on her cheeks, and her lips – oh those lips – those lips which Mildred thinks she could spend the rest of her days lost against, for they are sweeter than any fruit, warmer than any breakfast.

“Go on then.” Mildred smiles, planting a delicate kiss adjacent Gwen’s ear. “I’ll get the coffee.”

She pulls two mugs from from a cabinet, filling them with the mirky brown liquid. Mildred puts cream and sugar in one for herself, and leaves the other black. “I still can’t understand how to stomach this with nothing in it.” She chuckles, handing it to the older woman.

Gwendolyn takes it, murmuring her thanks, and brings the mug to her lips. She sighs, eyes fluttering when the caffeine buzzes through her system. “Years of practice.” She winks, and Mildred blushes.

It’s a beautiful day, uncharacteristically warm for November. A breeze hums off the trees in their backyard, and carries with it the sweet, rotting scent of dirt and grass. They decide to take breakfast on the porch. Mildred watches the steam rise off her plate stacked high with pancakes.

“They’ll get cold, you know.” Gwendolyn says with a mouthful.

Mildred nods, cuts off a bite, and puts the morsel in her mouth. They’re good. _Really_ good – crispy, and fluffy, and holding the distinct tang of buttermilk. Mildred swallows, smiles, sighs. They eat in relative silence, taking this brief moment of reprieve to simply exist near one another. When Gwendolyn has finished her plate, soaking up the last of the syrup with her finger notwithstanding, she leans back on her wicker chair with her coffee mug in her hand, and starts to hum again. It’s a new tune, one Mildred doesn’t recognize.

“That’s nice,” Mildred whispers for fear of enveloping the sound, “what is it?”

“Etta James.” Gwendolyn swallows another gulp of coffee.

Mildred rolls her eyes. “I know _that_. She’s all you’ve been humming for the past week. But what song?”

Gwendolyn swallows a laugh. “It’s called _My Dearest Darling,_ and I have not been singing her so much.”

“Oh, you have so!” Mildred jabs back, eyes wide and knowing.

Gwendolyn thinks she can see the universe reflecting back at her through Mildred’s dark eyes. They glint and gleam with the force of a supernova, and the gentle vastness of space and time combined.

“Etta James. Since Tuesday, maybe? Billy Holiday before then, and before her, I think it was The Ink Spots.” Mildred recalls.

“You’ve been keeping track?”

Mildred blushes and pushes a few pieces of strawberries around with her fork. “I like to know what you are singing. It’s like having a music lesson.” Her expression changes, the corners of her lips twitching downwards. “I … I never listened to a radio growing up. One of the homes I was placed with had an old record player, but …” She shakes her head.

Gwendolyn takes Mildred’s hand, pale eyes shimmering, but she doesn’t pry. Mildred will tell her when she’s ready. The luxury of time in on her side.

“It’s getting late. I’ll drive you to work.” Gwendolyn stands, taking Mildred’s plate and lingering a kiss against her forehead.

The drive from their home to Lucia State Hospital takes thirty minutes along the coastline. Mildred presses her finger against the airflow which bounces off the car, and feels like she’s flying. Gwendolyn steals glances of her from the corners of her vision. She smiles, an earnest and gentle thing, and turns the radio up. Shadows dance across the younger woman’s face, painting her in a sort of yellow glow as they flit across her features. There, with Gwendolyn next to her, and the radio blaring, and the sound of wind billowing through their car, Mildred thinks she can feel the swell of ocean rise through her. And what of Gwendolyn?

Gwendolyn hums in spite of herself, under her breath at first, until there’s a break in whatever song has been playing on the radio. Then, Mildred hears her, and she shuts the thing off, and turns a little in her seat so she’s gazing fondly over at her; as if this is a private concert just for her.

“You’re going to give me stage fright, you know.” Gwendolyn smarts.

Mildred shakes her head, a giggle bubbling in her throat. “I doubt that.”

“Oh nothing, nothing in this world can keep us apart …”

Mildred’s fingers tangle with the hair at the base of Gwen’s skull.

“Oh my dearest darling, I offer you my heart.”

She rests her head in the crook of Gwendolyn’s shoulder.

“Oh my dearest darling, I offer you my heart.”


End file.
